


Better in Picture

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Less significant characters include the rest of the FF and Aunt May, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: In which Peter Parker has no interest in sleeping with Matt Murdock, no matter what anyone seems to think.





	Better in Picture

**Author's Note:**

> There are a couple things that I normally default to when I'm writing spideytorch fic: one, that if I'm going to use a member of the extended spider-cast, it's probably MJ, and two, Johnny is probably already in the know regarding Peter's identity. I wanted to shake both of those things up a bit! And so I thought to myself--hey, you know who I love and whose friendship with Peter I think is severely underrated? Matt Murdock.
> 
> Things started to fall into place from there.
> 
> Since the events of the Daredevil title are so relevant to this particular fic, I figured I should do a quick run down:
> 
> In Bendis's DD run, Matt's secret identity gets blown to the tabloids. He sues for libel (and wins), but the cat never really gets back in the bag. Fast forward to Waid's run, and Matt and Foggy are struggling with the ramifications of this, as the lawyers they face in court keep bringing the accusations up in order to imply that various shady things are happening in the N&M law offices. So rather than go to trial and represent their clients, they start coaching them on how to represent themselves. It's... not the most lucrative business practice.
> 
> During this time, Matt is also in full blown "fake it 'til you make it" cheerful denial of the events of Shadowland (he got possessed by a demon) and his subsequent Forrest Gump-style road trip to self-discovery (check out the Daredevil: Reborn mini, if you want to see Matt kick a bunch of corrupt cops in the face while sporting a depression beard).
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, I took a couple liberties; first, I assumed that the FF have kept Nelson & Murdock on retainer, since they mostly need day to day signatures, paperwork filing, and legal advice (and can tap in Jen if something does go to trial). Second, though Peter was working at Horizon Labs around this time, I've kept him as a freelance photographer at the Bugle, just because I wanted to.
> 
> Aaaaand I think that's everything? Happy reading!

"Any luck?” Peter asked hopefully, crouched on the balls of his feet in one of the broad windows of _Nelson and Murdock_ ’s law offices.

Matt’s lips twisted, and Peter hung his head in defeat as Matt admitted, “Not a shout, not a whisper, not even a _breath_. Sorry, Parker.”

“I don’t understand it,” Peter seethed. He slunk down from the sill, shutting the window with a _slam_ that made Matt wince, and yanked off his mask. His own reflection glared out of the glass covering Matt’s tastefully bland wall art, showing sweat-streaked hair standing on end, a tight and angry jaw.

Peter sneered disgustedly, jerking his gaze away to focus on tugging off his gloves. “I swear, this guy’s not smart enough to skip town--” he leaned back on one foot, throwing his arms wide in a motion that flung one of his gloves across the room to slide pathetically down the wall, behind a filing cabinet-- “but damned if I know where he’s holed himself up!”

Matt pointedly ignored his histrionics. As if _he’d_ never been dramatic in his life, the Catholic hypocrite.

“Are you sure he couldn’t find your little...” Matt paused halfway through shedding his suit, pinching one red-gloved thumb and forefinger together demonstratively. “Bug... thing...?”

“Spider-tracer.”

“Right.” Matt ditched the rest of his Daredevil costume with the nonchalant ease of a guy who could sense people’s heart rates increase when they saw him shirtless. “Your little bug thing.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I guess it’s always possible,” he said begrudgingly, rummaging through the drawers of Matt’s desk for wherever they’d stashed their pants. Good thing he couldn’t read braille, or this would probably be some kind of breach of confidentiality. “If he did, he must have known- or assumed- what it was and destroyed it; otherwise it would have led me to a dumpster or gutter somewhere.”

“And then the guy stopped breathing for good measure,” Matt added dryly. He accepted the silk shirt Peter was shoving in his direction, scarred, milky eyes aimlessly fixed on the wall somewhere behind Peter’s left ear. “You’ll find him,” he promised.

“Yeah, and he better hope it’s soon, because the longer it takes, the harder I’ll be punching when I do,” Peter muttered darkly.

Matt’s lips twitched with amusement. “Sounds cathartic.”

“Oh, it will be.”

Peter tugged up his sweats, studying Matt out of the corner of his eye. He’d known him for years- longer even than he’d known Mary Jane, technically- and it had been a long time since the guy’d been this... settled.

“There anything you, uh... wanna talk about?” he asked, as casually as he could manage. It was hard to forget that not-so-long-ago stretch of time where Daredevil had completely disappeared from New York, or the circumstances preceding it.

“Nope.” Matt leaned forward across his desk, dress shirt still unbuttoned but now rolled halfway up his forearms. “Why?” he asked, with a benevolent smile. “Something you think I need to talk about?”

Peter gazed back at him, unimpressed. “Look, dude, I’m not your keeper; Foggy’s the one who gets that dubious honor. You don’t wanna talk to me, I don’t care--”

“No,” Matt scoffed. “Peter Parker _never_  wants to fix problems that have nothing to do with him.”

“Shut up.”

“You started it.”

Peter breathed in deeply, dropping his head back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “I cannot _believe_  someone licensed you to practice law.”

“And I can’t believe you’ve ever managed to stand still long enough to take a pict--” Matt paused, straightening. “Someone’s in the office.”

"You do have a partner, you know,” Peter said dryly, his long-sleeve t-shirt hanging loosely from one hand.

Matt did that not-eye roll thing he did. “Someone in _addition_ to Foggy.” His head cocked to the side, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips, and then recognition, surprise, and concern flashed across his face in rapid succession. “Shit!”

“...not here, so I’ll just drop these papers on his desk,” Foggy’s voice grew louder on the other side of the door as Matt launched himself over the desk and crowded Peter- too surprised to resist- up against the wall, just before the door swung open.

“I’ll have him call y--Jesus!” Foggy yelped, whatever papers he was delivering going flying as he clapped a hand over his eyes.

Peter could only imagine the picture they made, Matt not even half-dressed and Peter’s hair doing that thing that it did when he pulled off the mask. “Uh,” he said, as Matt twitched slightly, positioning himself more firmly between Peter and the door.

They jostled slightly--Peter trying to push him back, hissing, “What the fuck!” as Matt clung more tightly and snarled, “ _Suit!”_

And then Johnny Storm peered into the room over Foggy’s head, his eyebrows shooting up as he wolf-whistled, a big grin on his face. “Get it, Daredevil!” he crowed, and Peter finally got the secret-identity-disguising memo.

“I’m not Daredevil,” Matt said automatically (and unconvincingly). “Did you need something, Mr. Storm?”

“A manual on how knocking works, for one?” Peter fired off, shrinking down behind Matt as best he could. Something flashed across Johnny’s face--was it recognition? Peter gulped. He couldn’t make out the webs from all the way over there, could he?

Foggy abruptly snapped out of his trance.

He spun on his heel and set one hand in the center of Johnny’s chest, giving him a gentle but firm push away from the doorway. “Sorry, Matty,” he said, breezily. “We’ll take care of the paperwork and get it back to you first thing tomorrow morning, Mr. Storm. Pass on a hello to your sister and Dr. Richards for me--”

The door shut loudly behind them. They waited a long moment, Matt’s brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to Foggy and Johnny’s conversation, and then he nodded decisively, stepping away.

“Foggy handled that well,” Peter commented idly. “He walk in on you _in flagrante_ with attractive young men on a regular basis, Matt?”

“Attractive?” Matt asked, with an amused eyebrow raise.

“More attractive than you.”

“ _Young_?”

“Younger than _you_.” Peter barked a laugh at the disgruntled look on Matt’s face, ducking out from under his arm. “Thanks, Hornhead. I owe you one.”

Matt snorted, returning to buttoning his shirt. “I spent all afternoon swinging around the city helping you track a mugger, and now Johnny Storm’s going to tell everyone in the community that Daredevil’s banging that photographer from the _Bugle_ ; you owe me _several_.”

“But, Matt,” Peter snickered as he shoved his mask in his pocket and casually picked up the filing cabinet to retrieve his gloves, “I thought you _weren’t_ Daredevil?”

“Get out of my office.”

He staggered dramatically as Matt (pants unfastened and hanging loose around his hips) shoved him towards the door, settling one hand over his heart with a wounded gasp. “Have you been lying to me, Mr. Murdock? I thought my dalliance was with a mild mannered man of the law, not some swash buckling hooligan! I can’t handle a dangerous man, Matty; just ask my Aunt May, I have a very delicate constitution--”

“Goodbye, Peter,” Matt said, firmly, and shoved Peter’s messenger bag into his hands before closing the door with a click.

Peter snickered again, running his hand through his hair to try and flatten it. “Hey, Foggy,” he greeted, that little buzz at the back of his skull warning him someone was there. (That, and the creak of the hinges of Foggy’s office door as he peered out.)

“Ah,” Foggy made a little noise. “That explains things. Hi, Pete.”

Peter shot him a grin, slinging his bag over his shoulders. “Didn’t get a good enough look to recognize me before?”

“Too distracted by my partner’s semi-bare ass being exposed to a client,” Foggy said dryly. He leaned his hip on the frame of his door, arms crossed over his chest and looking tired. “Not that it’s the first time.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised.”

Matt coughed loudly from inside his office- reminding them he could hear every word- and Foggy rolled his eyes. “I should get back to work. So should someone else I know,” he added, voice raised, “since apparently ‘I’m just _so_ sick today, Foggy; can’t even get out of bed’ is code for ‘I’ve got a play date with one of my vigilante friends.’“

Peter winced. “Lover’s quarrel,” he observed, heading for the exit. “I’ll get out of your hair. Good seeing you, Foghorn Leghorn--and take care of yourself, alright? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“So would you if you dealt with him everyday.”

“And thank god I don’t,” Peter agreed, flashing Foggy a two finger salute as he slipped out.

He tucked his hands in the pockets of his sweats as he took the stairs two at a time. It was the Parker Luck, he theorized; no mugger, no leads, and caught with Matt’s pants down with the Human Torch on the other side of the door.

Should he try and improve his karma? Help a couple extra little old ladies cross the street? Getting called a menace and thwacked with a handbag was probably just a bonus, in cosmic spreadsheet terms.

“That settles it,” Peter said, stepping out into the sunlight. “I should’ve been a boy scout.”

“Feel like you missed out on the uniforms?” Johnny asked, leaned up against the wall of the building with the side of one thousand dollar shoe tapping idly against the sidewalk.

He looked like he was posing for a magazine cover--all long lines and firm jaw, his eyes not-literally-but-metaphorically sparking in the sunlight, his hair swept up off his forehead with just the right amount of product. Peter almost reached for the camera in the bag on his hip, before he remembered himself.

“Stalking me, Torchy?” he asked, gaze flicking up the building before returning to Johnny’s, one eyebrow raised challengingly. “Would’ve expected you to be long gone by now.”

Johnny’s lips tightened, and he straightened away from the wall, thumbs hooked in his pockets. “I didn’t get a great look at you up there, but I _thought_ I recognized your voice. Peter Parker, Reed’s _ex_ -intern.”

There was a stress on that “ex-” bit that Peter didn’t like. It was only too clear Johnny was pissed; the question was _why_.

“Yeah, well,” Peter said. “Good talk. I’m just gonna--”

Johnny’s hand snapped out, catching Peter’s arm when he tried to step away. It would’ve been only too easy to break his hold, of course, but he was _already_ in for a pound with the whole fake out, not-make out up at _Nelson & Murdock_. Might as well be in for a penny, too.

“Ow!” he yelped, playing up the way he was jerked back. “Dude, what’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, being here,” Johnny said flatly. “Matt Murdock’s got enough problems without having a morally bankrupt photojournalist sniffing around his office trying to dig up dirt.”

Peter squinted.

Johnny glared.

“Okay,” Peter said, stepping into Johnny’s space and holding up three fingers. “There are so many things wrong with that statement, but let’s start with three, shall we?”

He dropped a finger. “One,” he snapped, loudly, over whatever Johnny had tried to respond with, “if I didn’t already _know_ Matt Murdock wasn’t Daredevil--” or, y’know, so he’d yelled at Jonah, backing up Ben Urich when the whole thing hit the tabloids once upon a time-- “a member of the caped crowd telling me to back off of him? Would make me think he _was_.”

Johnny didn’t wince, but his expression did do something small-but-complicated that Peter knew meant he was mentally kicking himself.

“Two,” Peter lowered the second finger, “ _morally bankrupt_? You don’t even know me.”

That helped Johnny catch his second wind. “Sure I do,” he snapped, getting even further into Peter’s face. An unnatural but not yet uncomfortable wave of heat followed him. “You’re a dick who makes moves on other guy’s girls--”

Peter’d forgotten about Dorrie, honestly. “That is not... entirely accurate,” he tried, but Johnny just sneered.

He started ticking things off on his own fingers with little candle-like bursts of flame. “And Reed had to fire you for revealing privileged information, and you sell photos of your _friend_ to a guy who’s _hired a robot_ to try and kill him, not to mention drags his name through the mud on a daily basis. Jameson--”

“Hey!” Peter snapped, licking his fingers and pinching out Johnny’s middle finger. (Go figure.) “Jonah’s a big boy; he makes his own decisions. Don’t crucify me for his--Actually, you know what,” Peter pointed from his eyes to Johnny’s, “don’t crucify me at all. I’m Jewish.”

“Whatever.” Johnny rolled his eyes. “I can see it in your face; you _know_ the rest of it’s all true.”

“Fine! I’ve made some mistakes.” Peter prodded him with his final index finger. “But: three, I’ve known Matt Murdock for _years_ ; I’m not--” Peter felt his gag reflex kicking in just saying the words-- “’sleeping with him to sell the story to the tabloids’, or whatever you think is going on here. I would never--I could _never_ do that to him.”

Johnny brushed his hand aside. It was stupid, how good he looked out in the sunshine like this, especially as his face softened slightly.

A tiny bit of doubt entered his voice. “What,” he asked, “are you in love with him?”

Peter couldn’t help it; he laughed in Johnny’s face.

 

* * *

 

 

“You want shotgun?” Betty asked, spinning her keys around one finger and raising an eyebrow at him. She propped one hip up on her desk, tilting her head to the side as she added, “I mean, I’m trying to think of why else you would have plopped yourself down in _my_ ergonomic desk chair and made yourself at home.”

Peter offered her his most winsome smile. “C’mon, Betts--what’s yours is mine, right? I needed a desk.”

“Freelance photographers don’t _get_ desks,” she told him smugly, faux-flipping hair over her shoulder- her stylish bob wasn’t conducive to drama- and lifting one hand to study her nails. “Front page journalists,  on the other hand...”

“I know!” Peter grabbed her knee and shook it lightly, relishing the way she tipped her head back laughing. “I’m always so proud. I’ve got a scrapbook.”

Betty’s smile softened into something wistful. “Aw, Pete.” She set one hand on the desk, leaning on it as she reached out to cup Peter’s cheek with the other. He leaned into her touch, smiling back up at her. “I’ve still got the clippings from all your photos from back when we were dating stashed away in a box in my closet, you know. God, that was _forever_ ago.”

“And yet, you haven’t aged a day.” Peter winked, and she laughed again, that sad note flitting back out of her voice as she smacked him lightly on the cheek.

“Alright,” she said briskly, standing up once more. “You want to be my photog for this one or not, Parker? I’ve already wasted too much time on nostalgia; I’ve gotta get moving.”

“Confession.” Peter shrugged into his jacket as he followed her across the bullpen, offering up that feed-me-Aunt-May smile once more. “I did not, in fact, need your desk; I _was_ just waiting around for future Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Betty Brant to bring me something good.”

Betty threw a grin over her shoulder at him, her eyes sparkling. “Good? Forget Spider-Man, Parker, today I’ve got you--”

“--The Fantastic Four,” she announced proudly. She flashed her press credentials as she slipped around the police barricade, and Peter didn’t bang his head against a wall mostly only because they were in the middle of the street.

"I was hoping the fight wouldn’t be over, though," she sighed, picking her way carefully across the rubble that was strewn around the area.

"It'll still make a great story, Betts," Peter managed, raising his camera to snap a candid before they were noticed--Ben was flopped on the ground, looking as relaxed as a pile of rocks could; Johnny was leaning on his shoulder, sparks playing across his fingertips, as Sue and Reed talked quietly to each other with pinkies linked. Peter always liked these shots, where the Four looked as human as they did strong.

A pen and notepad appeared in Betty's hand as if by magic as she called out a greeting, and Peter let himself drift away from her wake.

He kept to the edges of the battlefield, firing off shot after shot of destruction and recovery--police and citizens, a couple long distance of Ben with chunks of concrete as big as a car in either hand, some of Reed stretching a story tall to retrieve a family's dog from their apartment, one with Sue and Johnny bracketing a pair of twins as they helped them find their parents.

Peter was crouched down, balanced on the balls of his feet and sitting on his heels as he tried to get a picture that framed Reed and Sue against the low afternoon sun, when his spider-sense rippled. It wasn’t a warning so much as a nudge, and he didn't even bother to glance around.

Who _else_ smelled like ozone and expensive cologne?

"Hey, Johnny," he said idly, lowering his camera to fiddle with the settings. "Miss me already, did you?"

Johnny ignored his question in favor of making a halfway-decent attempt to loom at him from the side. "I have half a mind to call the _Bugle_ and order Jameson to keep you away from us on pain of never getting another interview."

Peter snorted. "That'd probably make him hire me to follow you around twenty-four-seven." He lowered his voice, faking a pull from an imaginary cigar as he added, “’I never liked those hooligans, Parker! They must be hiding something, and I want you to get to the bottom of it!’”

"You'd like playing paparazzi, wouldn't you?" Johnny sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're shameless enough for it."

"Of course I wouldn’t enjoy it!" Peter lowered his camera entirely, elbows resting on his knees as he smirked up at Johnny. "Even getting to ogle Sue and Reed wouldn't make up for having to look at you all day."

Something hot and sharp crackled through the air around them--Peter pulled his camera in defensively, as if that could keep the electronics from melting if Johnny got too pissed and vindictive, and shot him an accusatory glare. "Look, I've got a job to do here, alright? Go rescue a kitten from a tree or something."

“Just stay away from my family, you--”

Betty cleared her throat lightly, approaching from the side. "Everything okay?" she asked, her gaze flicking from Peter to Johnny and back again. She had one hand in her purse--probably ready to mace a superhero in the face if he needed her to, Peter thought fondly.

"Just peachy." Johnny shot Peter one last glare and then stormed- no pun intended- off in a huff.

Peter snapped a picture of him- his torso against the sky, the line of his shoulders tense and angry- and then stood up with a sigh. "It's a long story," he told Betty's expectant eyebrows, carefully recapping the lens and sliding his camera safely into its bag.

Betty’s eyebrows inched slightly higher.

"It’s an especially long story when the person waiting for it is a well meaning but nosy reporter,” Peter added, as if that could possibly appease her.

"Aw, come on," she wheedled, sliding her arm through his as she led him off. "We're old friends, Pete. You can tell me about your mysterious celebrity beef without me spilling the beans to Jonah!"

Peter sighed, raising his eyes to the sky for just a moment. "Fine,” he said begrudgingly, and Betty gave a tiny fist pump of victory.

“So, the thing is,” he began, settling his hand over hers in the crook of his arm, “Johnny thinks I'm using Matt Murdock for sex." He paused, squinting, and tilted his head slightly as he mused, "I guess it's actually a pretty short story."

They were silent for a moment as they ducked back through the police barricade, and then Betty asked, thoughtful, " _Are_ you sleeping with Matt Murdock?"

Peter barked a laugh. "No, I'm not sleeping with Matt." He held up a finger before she could ask, an admonishing note in his voice as he added, "And on an unrelated note, I'm not banging that Daredevil guy, either."

Betty nodded, still looking pensive, then asked, "Have you thought about it?"

Peter nearly tripped over his own feet.

She cackled and held her hands up in a shrug, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she added, "I mean, c'mon, Pete, he's hot! He looks like he'd go down--"

"We're not talking about this," Peter told her loudly, reaching out to clap a hand over her mouth. His face was burning. It wasn’t a thought he’d ever seriously entertained, of course, but c’mon--he’d met the guy when he was sixteen and in the midst of his great bi awakening.

Betty pushed his arm away, still snickering. "So _that’s_ a yes. But I’m a good friend,” she added loftily, catching his arm once more as she purposefully bumped into him, a joking grin curling on her lips. “I won’t use it against you.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“Sure.” Betty shot him a sly look. “What about Johnny Storm?”

Peter’s shoulders tensed. “What _about_ Johnny Storm?”

“Don’t play dumb!”

“But, Betts, just ask Jonah--” he threw his free arm wide-- ”I _am_ dumb!”

She pursed her lips, studying him with a bright, intelligent gaze that made him want to slouch down defensively. What did she think she’d seen before she interrupted them earlier? Just an argument--one of hundreds he’d had with Johnny. Whatever she saw _now_ , it made her quietly let the subject go.

“Just explain to me one thing, Pete,” she said, freeing him from the intensity of her gaze. “Why does the Human Torch think you're sleeping with Matt Murdock?"

"Matt..." Peter coughed into his hand, not looking at her either. "May have told him I was?"

" _Why?_ "

"It's--"

"--A long story," Betty finished, rolling her eyes. They had finally reached her car; she hit the button on her key twice, unlocking the doors. "It's always a long story with you, Pete. Ever noticed that?”

"What can I say?" Peter held the door open for her, offering a wry grin as she slipped in past him. "I live an unfortunately exciting life."

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe unfortunately was the wrong word, but exciting--well, exciting was pretty much perfect.

“New York, New York,” Peter said, grinning wildly into the wind as he flung himself off of a building.

Web slinging for the sake of web slinging was one of those things that made it all worth it--the long nights, the bruises, the cancelled plans and perpetual penny pinching. There was that one moment at the top of a swing where his whole city was stretched out below him in a glittering metropolitan miasma of movement and color. Peter was pretty sure those were some of the only times he was really, truly at--

“Hey, webhead!” Johnny yelled, soaring up next to him. “We need to talk!”

Peter shoved down the flare of annoyance that sparked in his stomach just from hearing that voice. It wasn’t fair to Johnny; he thought he was in a fight with some asshole he barely knew, not his best friend.

“You breaking up with me?” Peter asked, a quick flip and a new webline adjusting his trajectory mid-air.

He hit the nearest building with a _thump_ that rattled the window beneath his feet and then settled his back against the glass. An annoyed office worker threw a magazine at him to tell him to go away, but Peter ignored the _thwack_ , gesturing for Johnny to talk. “Hit me with it, hot stuff.”

Johnny crossed his arms over his chest, fiery fingers drumming on the inner crook of his elbows. “You and Peter Parker, you go way back, right?”

His face was hard to read when he was flamed on, those familiar nooks and crannies smoothed away in the flickering monochrome, but Peter hadn’t known him for fifteen odd years just to let a little self-immolation keep him from knowing what was going through that pretty head.

“Uh.” Peter rubbed his chin with one hand, glad Johnny couldn’t see the look on his face through the mask. How best to defend yourself when you weren’t speaking _as_ yourself? “I guess you could say that,” he hedged. “But I don’t know him that well.”

“But he is, like, your friend?” Johnny pulled a face, his flames rippling with the motion. “To the extent that you as Spider-Man really have friends.”

“Hey, hey.” Peter snapped his fingers, dragging Johnny’s attention back to him. “ _We’re_ friends,” he said firmly, and tried not to read into the way Johnny brightened- literally- at that. “Talk to me, Torchy. What’s this about? Is it the Murdock thing? Because I gotta tell ya--”

_Twang_.

Peter froze, the reverberations from his spider-sense humming at the back of his neck. _Twang_ \--there it was again, that discordant pulse that always came along with the use of a _goddamn spider-tracer_.

“Spidey?” Johnny asked, concerned, but Peter was already flinging himself off of the building, crowing with vindictive delight.

“Who knew the devil was so good at predicting the future?” he demanded. He turned a flip, bouncing off a nearby flagpole, and fired off a grin to Johnny- bewildered but following- that he probably couldn’t even read through the mask. “Hornhead promised my mugger would turn up.”

“Are you--” Johnny put on a burst of speed to get ahead of Peter, turning half-back to face him. “You’re tracking somebody right now?”

“The one who got away.” Peter laughed. “The one from Wednesday, anyway. DD and I scoured the city for him the other day, but we must have missed something.” _Twang_. Course correction; this guy was on the move. “He’s nothing special,” he added for Johnny’s benefit, “just an armed mugger. I wouldn’t usually go to the trouble of putting a tracker on him--”

“You wouldn’t normally _need_ to,” Johnny pointed out.

Peter’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said stiffly. For a moment, there was just the whistle of the wind over his costume and the crackle of Johnny’s flames, and all Peter heard was a twelve-year-old’s scream. “But this guy caught a lucky break and saw me coming in the reflection of a passing bus, so he kneecapped a kid to slow me down while he made a run for it.”

Johnny didn’t say a word, but the flare of sparks in his wake spoke volumes.

“Exactly,” Peter said, grimly, and his spider-sense went _twang, twang, twang_ as the mugger came to a stop. “Tommy Lee, I have found my one armed man,” he muttered, alighting on the corner of a nearby building. He hung on with the finger tips of one hand and the ball of his foot, leaning out over the street as he studied the dinky little apartment complex.

Johnny flamed off, crouched on the roof a few feet above him. “Want an assist?”

“Nah, I’ve got this one. Shouldn’t take long,” Peter said, dismissively. That window, there--probably not his mugger’s, but it was cracked an inch and the apartment beyond was dark and empty. “I bust in, I bust his head, I leave him for the cops with the inevitable pile of stolen wallets on his coffee table, and we--” he gestured between himself and Johnny--”go get lunch.”

“Hot,” Johnny commented idly. “Alright, I’ll wait, but if I hear screaming--”

“Then it won’t be mine.”

Peter swung over to the other building, too quick for the street goers below to notice his shadow pass overhead, and used that open window as the invitation it may as well have been.

_Twang, twang, twang_. He followed his spider-sense up a floor and over, wiggling his fingers to the slack-jawed, sticky four-year-old clinging to her mother’s jeans as they approached from the opposite end of the hallway.

“Fly caught in your web, ‘Spider-Man’?” Mom asked, laughing, and Peter tapped the side of his nose through the mask. She snorted, waving over her shoulder as she kept walking past. “Alright, hero. I’ll see you in Times Square.”

“Sure,” Peter agreed, walking up onto the wall. “Just keep your eyes on the sky, huh?”

He crouched on the lintel of the door, parallel to the floor- _twang_ \- and knocked sharply. There was movement behind it- _twang_ \- and palpable confusion in the air- _twang_ \- as his mugger peered out of the peephole into an empty hallway.

Peter knocked again.

_Twang_.

The door swung hesitantly open.

_Twang_.

Peter said, “Count yourself lucky it only took me forty-eight hours to find you.”

The man peering out of his apartment flinched so badly he knocked himself to the floor. _Twang_. His face twisted in surprise and horror, _twang_ , and Peter fired a webline to tug him in close enough to see the terrified whites of his eyes and the nicotine stains on his teeth.

_Twang_.

“His name is Michael,” Peter snarled.

He swung out into the sunshine ten minutes later, spider-tracer deactivated and stashed safely back in his belt pocket. “Time to go get hot dogs?” he asked Johnny, flopping cross-legged onto the roof’s edge next to him.

Instead of an answer, Johnny smugly pressed two foil-wrapped parcels of goodness into his hands and plopped a giant soft drink, two straws, onto the concrete between them.

Peter made a downright obscene noise. “Torchy, baby, you’re too good to me.”

Johnny preened, jaw tilting just-so as he flashed that movie star grin. His eyes flicked down as Peter shed his gloves, taking in the blood he hadn’t quite been able to wash off in the mugger’s dingy sink, and then he looked away again.

“It’s some knock off orange whatever,” he said, casual, as the sirens began to wail into earshot.

“Too cheap for namebrand?” Peter taunted.

“Shut up, bug brain.” His words were annoyed, but his grin reached all the way up to those cool blue eyes. “I bought you hot dogs.”

Peter snorted, rolling up his mask, and they ate in companionable silence as the ambulance came and went, the police appearing on their heels. Not one of them bothered to look up and find their “anonymous” tipster sitting on the roof across the street.

“So,” he said, finally, crumpling the empty pieces of foil into one ball and tossing it towards the nearby dumpster. “Peter Parker?” he prompted.

“He’s a jackass,” Johnny muttered, spinning the slush of shitty orange soda and half-melted ice around inside its plastic cup.

“Aren’t we all?” Peter said dryly. “Look, he told me about that thing with Murdock.” Johnny’s face twisted, and Peter made an annoyed noise, low in his throat. “You’ve got the wrong idea--they’re not dating. They didn’t even actually sleep together.” He elbowed Johnny, flashing a lightning fast grin. “You and Foggy killed the mood, apparently.”

“That’s pretty much exactly the idea I had of it, actually,” Johnny said, sourly. “Other than the...” he gestured vaguely. “Lack of sex.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and it’s just _so_ morally reprehensible for two single, consenting adults to sleep together after over a decade of friendship and intermittent freelance-photographer-moonlighting-as-an-investigator-for-a-friend’s-law-firm business partnerships.”

(That was a good way to euphemize the occasional superheroic team-up, right?)

He threw some jazz hands in for good measure, just in case Johnny wasn’t feeling dumb yet, and the look he was given in response could have fried a lesser man. Possibly literally.

“That’s not the issue,” Johnny snapped, and then he... hesitated. “I didn’t know they knew each other that well.”

“Do you really know either of them at all?” Peter asked dryly. He sighed, dropping the sarcasm (for once) and nudging Johnny’s shoulder with one hand. “Look, Johnny, I think it’s nice you’re so worked up over a guy who’s barely more than the family lawyer or a name in the tabloids to you, but Matt Murdock doesn’t need your help.” He paused, tilting his head slowly from side to side, shrugging. “I mean, Daredevil, sure, that guy’s a hot mess, but--”

Johnny barked a laugh. “ _You’re_ a jackass, too.”

“Yeah, well.” Peter clapped him on the shoulder, looking around for wherever he’d set his gloves. “Good talk, hot head."

“I’m not going to stop hating Parker’s guts,” Johnny added, stretching his back and rising to his feet.

Peter rolled his eyes and tugged his mask properly into place. “I’ve said my piece, flamebrain. I don’t really care where you take it from here.”

“Well, c’mon--it’s just on principle!” Johnny nudged Peter’s thigh with one foot, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He hopped backwards off the roof, flaming on- to cries of amazement from the people in the street below- and wiggled his eyebrows. “Guy’s that hot and still has no idea how to dress himself, y’know?”

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d actually lived under her roof; walking into his Aunt May’s place and breathing in the smell--layer after faded layer of hardwood floor cleaner and homecooking, that particular perfume she loved so much. It always felt like coming home.

“Hey, Aunt May,” he called, and she spun around on the couch, her face lighting up with delight.

“Peter!” She made a move to get up, and he waved a hand wildly, dropping his bag and his shoes at the door.

“Don’t you dare,” he told her, hastening over to press a kiss to her cheek, crouching down next to the arm of the couch. He reached out to cup her cheek, and May immediately covered his hand with hers, her eyes crinkling with the force of her smile.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you made it over; I’ve missed you.”

“C’mon,” Peter laughed, “like I’d miss out on seeing my best girl. You knew I was coming over!”

She scoffed, settling back properly into her seat. “I knew you _said_ you were coming over, but what does that mean any more?”

He made a noise, guilt churning low in his stomach as he playfully mimed being stabbed in the heart. It hadn’t even been Spider-Man’s obligations that had kept him away this past week; just plain ol’ Peter Parker’s.

“Wow, straight for the kill. What is it the kids say these days, huh?” he asked teasingly. “You’re a ‘savage’?”

“Why are you asking me like _I_ should know?” May fired back, licking her thumb and scrubbing at something on his cheek. He pulled a face, but suffered the indignity with what little tact he had. “You’re the one who’s been a teenager since the turn of the century.”

“Which century, huh?”

She snorted, tilting his head from side to side and then nodding in satisfaction. “ _Chopped_ is on,” she added, patting his cheek lightly as she finally released him.

“ _Chopped_ is always on,” Peter pointed out. He caught her hand, cradling those frail bones between both of his. “I don’t think I’ve ever turned on my television and not been able to find _Chopped_ being marathonned on one or another of those high level channels--you know, the ones with the dumb names. You’d think Ted Allen could afford--”

“Peter, sweetheart,” May said, as long suffering and fond as she’d been since he was nine and leaving chemical stains on her good linens, “would you just sit down and watch the show with me?”

He grinned, so wide it was almost painful, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek again. “Sure, Aunt May; I can do that.”

“Good.” She let him put his arm around her and leaned into his side, pointing at the screen as it came back from commercial. “The one on the left forgot one of his basket ingredients,” she said disdainfully, and Peter gasped.

“How _dare_ he. He should be voted off the island.”

“Wrong show, Peter.”

“Oh.” He squinted, dropping his cheek to rest on her head. “He should... pack his knives and go?”

God, this couch was older than he was and still so much nicer than his; he practically sank back into it, swallowing down a groan as it cradled his perpetually exhausted limbs. It was the first piece of furniture Aunt May and Uncle Ben had ever picked out together, and in the decades since, it had been re-upholstered and re-stuffed and re-every other thing that could possibly be done to a couch. Somehow, it had never lost its magic, homegrown comfort.

May snorted, reaching up to pat his hand where it curled loosely around her shoulder. “Chopped, dear. He was just chopped. That’s why it’s the name of the show.”

“Huh,” Peter mumbled. He blinked long and slow, and it took a moment for his eyes to readjust. “Do I know that lady from somewhere?”

“She won a season of _Next Food Network Star_. I think you watched some of it with me.” May’s voice was warm and amused, and drifting down to him through a fog of half-consciousness. “Honey, do you want to go upstairs and take a nap?”

“‘M ‘wake.”

“Your phone’s been going off for the last thirty seconds, Peter.”

That made _much_ more sense than his spider-sense having migrated from the back of his neck to the middle of his thigh. He struggled to sit up, blinking through the haziness of his thoughts to pry it out of his pocket.

_M. Murdock_ , caller ID declared, underneath the stock image for a contact with no assigned picture. Using the one the _Globe_ had run along with their skeezy publication of Daredevil’s secret identity had just seemed gauche.

Peter groaned, dragging himself to his feet, and slipped barefoot out onto the porch to answer the call. “I know I owe you a favor--” he yawned--“but please don’t make me reschedule the reschedule of my rescheduled plans with Aunt May, after I showed up late and immediately fell asleep.”

“You owe me _multiple_ favors,” Matt said, tartly. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

Peter smirked, waving vaguely to the neighbors across the street before settling his hand on his hip. “I know it was a very steamy fake kiss that we didn’t exchange, Matty, but I just don’t think an actual date would be a very good--”

“Foggy,” Matt said, his voice distant like he’d moved the phone away from his face, “can we just tell them he said no? I don’t want to do this any more.”

Well, _that_ was interesting. “Tell who?” Peter asked. “Matt, what are you talking about?”

Foggy said something that Peter couldn’t understand, and Matt huffed. “He’s probably going to say no anyway. It’d be efficient.”

“Say no to what?” Peter demanded. “Matthew Michael Murdock, if you don’t answer me in ten seconds--”

“I went to Catholic school, _Peter Benjamin Parker_ ; threats like that stopped working on me when I was twelve.”

“Stop being dramatic, you petty little man.”

“After the other day, you should know that nothing about me is _little_.”

“Dick jokes.” Peter nodded to himself, closing his eyes. “America’s finest trial lawyer, everybody.”

Matt laughed, finally taking pity on him. “Monday night, Foggy and I are going to the local children’s hospital’s charity banquet with the Fantastic Four,” he explained, “and your presence has been requested.”

Peter’d heard about this on Betty’s car radio the day before; it was a swanky event, with a price tag somewhere around a thousand dollars a plate. He whistled, low and slow.

“I’m... flattered, Matt, but I’m also very broke.” He paused, frowning. “ _You’re_ very broke. Don’t tell me the self-representation coaching business is a particularly lucrative one.”

Matt snorted. “The FF have already bought out a table, Pete; they’re just looking to fill it. And according to a _very_ emphatic Sue Richards, Johnny Storm owes the three of us- you, in particular, and Foggy, just because- an expensive apology dinner.”

“Oh.” Peter drew up short--he’d started pacing the length of the porch and hadn’t even noticed until he’d stopped. He hadn’t _actually_ thought he’d changed Johnny’s mind; their conversation had been more for his own gratification than anything. “That’s...”

Of course, he realized, feeling stupid as soon as the thought crossed his mind, this had probably been Sue’s idea. Johnny must be moping around the Baxter Building, complaining so much that Ben was ready to throw him out a window.

“I warned her that it wasn’t really your scene,” Matt said, after a minute of silence. “She said there’d be no hard feelings either way.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck, pulling a face. Even if Johnny was pissy about this _now_ , it couldn’t hurt to try and mend some bridges, right? He could go, get the lay of the land, and if Johnny was amenable, get them back on vaguely cordial terms.

Not that it _mattered_ what Johnny thought of Peter Parker, he added guiltily.

If he’d rather bicker all night, Peter could always antagonize him enough to stoke the flames- no pun intended- of Johnny’s hatred without making a scene that would embarrass everyone involved. It was almost better if Johnny was too busy hating his guts to even think of conflating that jackass Peter Parker with his good friend Spider-Man, actually.

“No, I mean...” He pulled in a breath and blew it back out. “It’s for charity, right?”

“The hospital’s getting the donation whether you’re actually sitting in the seat or not,” Matt pointed out.

“Then it’d be rude to Reed and his buckets of money not to show my beautiful face, huh?”

Matt was silent for a moment--suspicious, disbelieving, whatever. It’s not like he knew him _that_ well, Peter thought, disgruntled. He had no right being so surprised.

Finally, he asked, “Do you even own a suit?”

Peter scoffed. “Of course I do.”

“Let me rephrase,” Matt said dryly. “Do you own a suit that was bought sometime in the last decade? No--sometime this _century_?”

“Uh...”

“Peter, your dinner plate cannot cost ten times what your suit did when it was purchased by your uncle in 1975.” Matt sighed. “I think I have something that would fit you with some minor alterations, and Jan van Dyne owes me a favor.”

“Tha--”

“Don’t thank me; it just means you owe me another one.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Of course it does. I’ll see you guys Monday, Matt.” He hung up, blowing out a breath, and turned around to find Aunt May hovering in the cracked doorway, looking concerned.

“It’s chilly outside, Peter; you should have put on shoes,” she admonished, even though it was barely in the fifties. “Is everything okay? You sounded stressed.”

“Everything’s great,” Peter promised. He shooed her back inside, offering his best rogue-ish grin. “Just making plans to do some hob-nobbing Monday night. Has Ted Allen picked a winner yet?”

“He’s not one of the _judges_ , Peter; he’s the _host_ \--”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter hated mingling.

"I hate mingling," he told Foggy.

He figured there wasn't much point in trying to commiserate with Matthew "born to schmooze" Murdock, who was already busy charming the pants off of Reed and Alicia--even the ever-lovin' blue eyed Thing seemed to be under his expert thrall. Sue had only escaped by virtue of being on the other side of the room, rubbing elbows with New York's other powerful women.

(Reed glanced up to find her every couple of minutes, his posture tensing and then relaxing once he spotted her. For her part, Sue always seemed to know when he was looking, flashing him a comforting grin. If Peter were the sort of person to call things adorable when he wasn’t trying to make fun of them, it would be adorable how in love they were.)

As for Johnny--well, who knew what he was up to. Holding court among his own circle of adoring fans, probably.

Foggy's lips twitched into a sideways little grin as he glanced over at Peter, looking him up and down, from his shiny, expensive shoes to the fashionably skinny tie and the combed, producted hair he'd let MJ fuss over for an hour. "Good thing," he said dryly. "The little old ladies are out in force tonight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you clean up nice, Parker."

Peter's spider-sense was buzzing softly and constantly at the back of his neck as the crowd ebbed and flowed around them, but at that moment it spiked sharply, and Peter took a step closer to Foggy just in time to avoid a butt pinch from a woman he vaguely recognized from the _Bugle_ 's society pages. "You have grandchildren my age," he said, accusingly.

She flashed him a lecherous grin and disappeared back into the mass of people.

"Okay," he muttered, resisting the urge to pull his suit jacket protectively tighter around himself. "I see what you're saying."

Foggy laughed at him unsympathetically--finally, Peter was starting to understand how this guy was best friends with Matt Murdock. "You two deserve each other," he grumbled.

Foggy rolled his eyes. " _I've_ got a failing business to network," he pointed out, looking tired and stressed enough to drive the point home, "but there's no reason _you_ can't go find a corner to hide in."

He turned down an offer of champagne from a circulating waiter, and the guy turned to Peter next, eyebrows raised expectantly. After a moment of deliberation--well, hell, it wasn't like he was going to be driving home or anything. He didn't even know how to drive, except with a certain blasé disregard for the rules of the road and also the existence of roads in general.

"Sure you wouldn't rather have the company?" Peter asked Foggy, taking a sip. "Your partner's abandoned you."

"Ah." Foggy tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "He may have abandoned me, but he's also Matt Murdock; he always comes through when he's needed. I'll be fine, Pete."

Someone was approaching them from behind once more, but instead of carrying the harbinger scent of attempted sexual harrassment- heavy florals and cat dander- this person smelled like ozone and expensive cologne.

Peter took a too big swallow of his champagne.

He'd been hoping he'd see Johnny first and get the chance to assess his mood before finalizing his game plan. Peter was only good at improvising when it involved punching grown men who were wearing brightly colored spandex and taking their inferiority complexes out on the rest of the world--in interpersonal situations, things tended to blow up in his face.

(Possibly these two facts were related.)

"Mind if I steal him for a second?" Johnny asked Foggy.

He was a line of heat at Peter's side, long fingers reaching out to curl around the crook of Peter's elbow, and Foggy was obviously not a telepath because all he did was smile and say, "Sure, Mr. Storm. I was done with him anyway."

"Johnny, please," he said.

Peter risked a sideways glance--he caught the pristine shoulder of a floral patterned suit and the corner of a sharp jaw, and Peter's mouth spouted off the first thing that came to mind without consulting the rest of him.

"'Mr. Storm is your father'?"

Johnny snorted, probably the first inelegant thing he'd done all night. "I feel like pretty much everybody knows better than to bring that guy up, at this point," he said dryly, and Peter wanted to kick himself.

"Right, sorry," he said awkwardly, firing off a helpless look to Foggy- who was laughing at him again, the bastard- as he let Johnny steer him effortlessly away through the crowd.

"I wanted to apologize, actually," Johnny said, and it was a relief to hear that practiced socialite charm fall away in favor of awkward nerves. They came to a stop in an empty pocket of floor, and he released Peter's elbow with an anxious sort of grin. "I spoke to a, uh, _mutual friend_ \--"

"The guy who runs the bodega two blocks over from the Baxter Building?"

Johnny gave him a flat look. "You're going to make this ten times harder than it needs to be, aren't you?"

Now _this_ was familiar ground.

"Sure, Torchy; kinda what I do." Peter dropped his empty champagne glass on a passing waitress's tray and flashed Johnny his best grin--Johnny smiled back, seemingly in spite of himself, and his eyes followed the motion when Peter unhooked the button of his jacket so he could slip his hand into his pocket.

Peter offered the other hand to Johnny, trying to convey every ounce of sincerity that he could as he added, "Hey, no, look--I said some dumb shit, you said some _particularly_ dumb shit--" Johnny snorted-- "but I'm willing to bury our Galactus-sized hatchet if you are."

"How very adult of you," Johnny said, not quite suspicious, but not quite convinced either.

"Well, there is a condition," Peter joked. He winked, leaning in slightly and lowering his voice, "You have to buy me dinner first."

Bad delivery. This was _already_ a dinner that Johnny had _already_ bought him; that was the joke. But it just sounded like--

Johnny accepted Peter's handshake, his grip warm and lingering and his smile tilting sideways into that smoldering one Peter used to catch glimpses of when Johnny was with Crystal. "Yeah?" he asked, and it didn't sound like a joke.

For the sake of his own sanity, Peter could not investigate any of that further.

"Well, sure," he said, flippant. He slipped his hand out of Johnny’s, lifting it in a shrug instead. "I'm a morally bankrupt paparazzi, remember? I never turn down free food."

Johnny laughed, genuine instead of scornful for the first time since he and Foggy had left Matt's office. "That hatchet's been buried ten seconds and you're already digging it back up?"

Was he standing closer now than he had been a second ago, or was it a trick of the light against the metallic notes of his suit jacket?

"Burying the hatchet does not mean giving up some of my best material," Peter said, matching Johnny's tone of teasing admonishment. He just couldn’t _help himself_.

Johnny answered with a dazzling, delighted grin, and... And Peter needed more champagne, if he was going to get through this. Thank you, conveniently timed waitress.

"You say you never turn down free food, but I heard tell you almost turned this down," Johnny mused, stealing the glass of champagne out from between Peter's fingers with a smirk that dared him to complain.

Peter could not have stopped himself from watching Johnny take that sip if he'd even bothered to try. "Here though, aren't I, hot stuff?"

"Here, and looking sharp." Johnny tugged lightly, briefly on the edge of Peter's jacket. "I've gotta admit I'm surprised you own a suit like this."

"I--"

Get a _hold_ of yourself, Peter.

He cleared his throat, taking a careful step backwards, and offered Johnny an apologetic grin. "I think it's time to find our seats," he said, quiet but firm.

Johnny didn't clamp down on his look of disappointment fast enough to hide it. "Uh, sure," he said, clearing his throat lightly. "Just follow the sound of an ominously creaking chair; it’ll lead us to Ben."

There were two seats waiting for them at the Fantastic Four's table, between Sue- who offered them both a warm smile when she glanced over her shoulder- and Matt, who looked deeply, thoroughly amused with himself somewhere behind those reflective red lenses. He leaned in when Peter took the seat next to him, murmuring, "You two need a room, Parker?"

"What I need is a cold shower," Peter muttered back.

Johnny was watching them, something borderline unreadable in his eyes, and Peter straightened guiltily, turning his attention to the speaker currently taking the podium.

Except that he had no reason to feel guilty, because he wasn't flirting with Matt and he wasn't dating either of them. Peter glanced longingly at the half-empty glass of champagne settled next to Johnny’s plate. It'd be a bad idea to steal it back, right?

The woman speaking- someone in the administration of the hospital in question- was passionate and charming and, most importantly, brief. As soon as the applause stopped, Sue was sitting forward in her chair to peer around Johnny.

“It’s good to see you, Peter,” she said warmly. “I loved the pictures that ran with Ms. Brant’s article the other day; you have a wonderful eye for composition.”

“Thanks...” Ma’am? Sue? Mrs. Richards? Peter couldn’t for the life of him think of what he’d normally say in a similar situation. He cleared his throat, flashing a smile. “It’s not hard to take good pictures of the Fantastic Four.”

“I’ve never found you difficult to sculpt,” Alicia agreed, her small hand curled around one of Ben’s great, rocky fingers. “Would you all groan if I called you a ‘fantastic’ muse?”

Peter joined in the laughter, letting himself relax. WHy was he so stressed?He could totally manage small talk with people he loved who didn’t think he knew them at all. Totally.

“I can send you the rest of the pictures, if you’d like,” he told Sue. “There are a couple good ones of you and Reed that didn’t get used.”

Sue beamed. “Oh, Peter, that would be lovely, thank you.”

“Any good ones of me?” Johnny asked, and Peter refused to look at him and see whatever lascivious eyebrow wiggle went along with that tone.

“A couple,” he said neutrally, accepting the bread basket that Matt was sort of vaguely handing in his direction. “The _Bugle_ has an email on file for the Future Foundation; would that work, Sue?”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I’d rather make sure it doesn’t get buried under requests for interviews and other public appearances. I’ll just give you a card with my personal contact information before we leave tonight.”

“Is that the same as what we’ve got, Mrs. Richards?” Foggy asked. “We can pass it along, if you’d like.”

“Things do have a habit of turning up missing from Peter’s pockets,” Matt said dryly. “They’re like a whole other dimension.”

Well, that was just one of the many hazards involved in shedding his civilian clothes while stuck to a wall three stories up in a blind alley; Matt should have a little more sympathy for these things. Peter knew for a fact he had a veritable armada of spare canes and glasses stashed away on the roof of his brownstone.

“The side effects of spending substantial portions of my day leaning out of windows and off of fire escapes, chasing the perfect picture.” Peter offered Sue an apologetic grin. “Maybe I should just send them through _Nelson & Murdock_.” He nudged Johnny with one elbow, unable to resist adding, “That way your lawyers are already involved if you decide any shots I took represent a defamation of character.”

Reed laughed. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Peter.”

“Not even if the matchstick thinks one makes his butt look big,” Ben added.

Johnny rolled his eyes and leaned in, his arm resting along the back of Peter’s chair as he murmured, “You know, I’m really beginning to think you didn’t mean it when you said you wanted to bury that hatchet.”

“What?” Peter glanced over at him, his smirk deepening. “You’ve never had a friendship that was ninety percent insulting each other before?”

Johnny tutted quietly. “I wouldn’t call us friends, yet, Parker; you’re really hurting my feelings over here.”

“Guess I’ll have to make it up to you then,” Peter said, thoughtlessly.

The words weren’t even out of his mouth before he regretted them, eyes flitting helplessly to the ceiling as Johnny’s grin widened.

How was he supposed to know that that flippant give and take that he had with Johnny when he was in the mask would wind up making him sound like an incorrigible flirt when he was out of it? And how was he supposed to know that Johnny would be so into it?

The arrival of dessert was a relief--Peter wanted out of that room as soon as possible. The realization that the first speaker had been so brief because there were more to come after dinner? That was pretty much the exact opposite of a relief.

“Oh, for the love of--”

Johnny cut him off by catching Peter’s wrist, pressing one finger to his own lips with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Luckily, their table was at the edge of the room- the Four had apparently requested it that way, in case they got called to duty and needed a non-disruptive get away- so there weren’t many people in earshot to glare at Peter for being an asshole.

“Come on,” Johnny whispered, jerking his chin at the temptingly large and empty balcony behind Alicia and Foggy’s backs.

“Aw, hot head...”

“Come _on_.”

Peter’s spider-strength meant he could have stayed resolutely in his chair even if Johnny had planted his heels into the ground and yanked with all of his strength. Yet somehow, with one little tug, Johnny had him quietly staggering out of his seat, making a half-hearted attempt to stay inconspicuously hunched as they skirted their table and made a break for the door.

“Fresh, cool air,” Johnny declared, making a beeline right for the edge. “Just right for clearing your head and steeling your resolve for the upcoming three hours of droning pleas for even more money on top of what’s already been donated tonight.”

Peter wished he could push up the sleeves of his suit, but he had his _other_ suit underneath. “You can’t even feel the chill, Johnny,” he pointed out dryly, resting his forearms on the cold wrought iron.

“I wasn’t talking about me.” Johnny shed his own jacket, folding it neatly over one arm, and leaned back against the railing next to Peter. He looked... contemplative, when Peter studied him from the corner of one eye.

He didn’t know what to do with the silence, so he filled it. “Reed’s check was already double what it needed to be, wasn’t it?” he hazarded. Charity seemed like a safe topic.

“Reed’s suggestion was double.” Johnny ducked his head slightly, his grin soft and fond. “Sue made it triple. Kids are kind of their soft spot--not that they aren’t pretty soft in general.”

“I get it.” Peter ignored the curious look that Johnny shot at him from under those long eyelashes, instead staring out across the glittering lights of the city. “I mean, if I had the money to donate to a hospital...”

“There a little Parker, Jr. running around out there somewhere?”

Peter winced. It was so much easier to joke about these things than to contemplate them seriously. “God, could you imagine? A child, with this personality? It’s a kindness to the world that I’ve never procreated.”

He let Johnny laugh, enjoying the sound of it as much as he ever did, and then added, quietly, “I was thinking about my aunt, actually; she’s almost always on the verge of one major illness or another.”

“You’re close with her?”

"That’s an understatement. She--” Peter shot Johnny a glare, shaking a finger at him. “You are _way_ too easy to talk to,” he said accusingly.

“You don’t seem like you shut up all that much in general.” Johnny took one look at Peter’s face and burst into laughter, falling sideways into him. “That’s the exact same face Franklin makes when Val corrects his grammar.”

“Yeah, well.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Good talk, glad we managed to be serious for about thirty seconds.”

Johnny made a little noise. “I really did get you all wrong, didn’t I?” he said it quietly, a statement and not a question, and Peter shrugged uncomfortably.

“Less wrong than I would like to think, probably.”

“I doubt it,” Johnny said softly. “You know, you remind me of someone I never would have expected you to remind me of. And this is... it’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he gestured between them, something vulnerable in his voice and on his face, and Peter’s chest ached.

Johnny leaned closer.

For a second, Peter thought Johnny was going to kiss him--then those blue eyes fluttered shut, pink lips parting just slightly, and Peter realized Johnny wanted Peter to kiss _him_. Worse yet, Peter realized he wanted to kiss _Johnny_.

Coming here tonight was the worst idea he’d had in ages.

“Taking pictures of Spider-Man doesn’t make me Spider-Man, Johnny,” Peter said, almost choking over the words as he backed away, turning towards the brightly lit ballroom on the other side of the glass.

There was a ringing in his ears--did it really only seem like flirting now because the mask was off, or had he been fooling himself all along?

“What the hell,” Johnny said, and Peter winced.

“Look, I--”

“Is that an Avengers quinjet?” Johnny demanded, grabbing Peter’s arm to spin him back around, pointing up at the lights in the sky.

That’s when several things happened very fast:

  1. Peter’s spider-sense blared to life, so strong he jumped left on instinct alone, tearing himself out of Johnny’s grip.
  2. Something- a ship, a meteor, whatever, _something_ \- crashed into the balcony near the building, sending debris flying.
  3. Someone screamed something, and Johnny was falling, bleeding from the temple and too dazed to flame on.
  4. A webline tugged Johnny in tight to Peter’s side, and a second anchored them against the side of the building, pulling taught as they swung back towards it.
  5. Their descent came to a jarring, unexpected stop against what seemed to be thin air.



Peter stared at Sue, one of his arms curled protectively around her brother, the other outstretched and gripping a webline, and she stared back, with her own arm flung forward, fingers spread wide.

Johnny made a noise of sluggish, voiceless confusion, and Peter and Sue snapped out of their trance.

He dropped his webline quickly, letting her pull them back into the room on her force field. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Johnny and find every one of his thoughts written across that expressive face.

“Did anyone else see?” he asked urgently, as soon as he was close enough that his voice wouldn’t carry. 

She shook her head quickly, rushing forward to meet them. “Most people hit the deck as soon as they heard the crash.”

Johnny keeled forward the second Peter gently set his feet back on the ground, but his sister was already there to help catch him. 

“I can confirm,” Matt murmured, his head cocked in that way that meant he was listening very intently to the conversations around them. “No one but the people at this table noticed anything other than the Invisible Woman rescuing her baby brother and his date.”

“Okay.” Peter breathed out, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. “Okay. Thanks for that one, Matty, definitely needed it phrased like that.”

“No problem.”

Jackass.

Peter extricated himself carefully from Johnny’s clutching fingers, passing him over completely to Sue. “I think Johnny has a concussion,” he explained. “Someone needs to call an ambulance. I’m going to--” He jerked his thumb back at the non-existent balcony and the honking, screaming streets that had just had concrete and steel and Avengers-related flotsam dumped unceremoniously onto them. No one was looking at him; they were all focused on Johnny. “Other people may be hurt.”

“Peter--” Matt said, sharply.

He was already flinging himself back into thin air, shedding pieces of his borrowed suit as he fell.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, a jackass, a dumb ass, and a smart ass walk into a bar,” Peter announced loudly, crouched on the windowsill of the Fantastic Four’s living room, “and, funnily enough, all three of them were named Spider-Man.”

“Johnny’s not here, Peter,” Reed called apologetically, one hand stretching into the living room with a folded piece of paper between two fingers.

“Really?” Peter fired off a webline, snatching the note faster than Reed could have handed it to him. “I was working on that for the last forty-two hours. Nigh on obsessively, actually. I kind of haven’t slept.”

Forty-two hours, and that lackluster joke was about as far as he’d gotten. Peter rubbed at the bridge of his nose, groaning, and blinked a couple of times before he was able to focus enough to read Johnny’s handwriting.

_Hey, wall crawler. Got plans with Wyatt this afternoon, and I figure--well, I hope you’re planning to show up at some point. I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere._

“’Don’t go anywhere’,” Peter repeated, exasperated. “Torchy, what am I supposed to do, play Uno with Franklin and Val?”

“They’re at the zoo with Cassie Lang and some of her friends, actually,” Reed told him, once again apologetically, as he followed his hand into the room. “Would you, ah... like something to drink? I was coming up for water. And you’re welcome to actually come inside, by the way; I turned off the security system to let you open that window with the expectation that you would.”

“I wondered about the lack of lasers.” Peter hesitated, watching Reed move comfortably around his kitchen. “Reed...”

“He had the most _minor_ of concussions.”

“Yeah, I know, I--” Peter coughed into his hand, embarrassment bubbling briefly to the surface. “May have ruined my autofill search suggestions for a decade trying to find a tabloid sleezy enough to bother you guys about how he was doing.”

Reed looked over at him, his neck twisting just that bit too far as he asked, curiously, “Then what did you want to know?”

Peter sighed, closing his eyes as he tipped his head back with a small shake. “Any idea if _Chopped_ is on?” he asked dryly, hopping down from the sill with the shaky kind of looseness that came with too much movement on too little sleep. “Never mind,” he said, before Reed could do more than frown in confusion, “don’t answer that. I’ll just take some of that water, if that’s okay?”

He was answered with a warm smile and a vibrantly orange plastic cup. “It’s why I poured two glasses.” Reed glanced back at the door, gesturing unnaturally widely with one hand. “I need to get back to the lab, but--”

“I can keep myself entertained,” Peter promised. Their sofa didn’t look nearly as comfortable as Aunt May’s, but hey; beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He shed his mask and gloves, dropping them on the coffee table as he poured himself down into the corner of the couch. He sat there for longer than he cared to admit, head in hands, as he tried to think his way through it--

What would Johnny have to say to him? “Hey, web head, remember when I called you a jackass to your face and it wasn’t a joke? Sorry about that, didn’t know you were you!”

It was no use. Peter was too tired to consider all the angles. There was a part of him that half expected to wake up, hung upside down and naked on a flagpost, tied up with his own webbing; there was another part of him that was hoping to wake up and find Johnny had curled up next to him on the couch.

Like... really hoping. God, he wished he’d never realized this about himself. Johnny’s love-to-hate-him crush undoubtedly whisked away into smoke the second he realized all of their chemistry was the result of a pre-existing camaraderie, but Peter had already been slammed in the face with the knowledge that he was more than a little in love with his best friend.

“Why don’t I have hobbies?” he asked the no one that was in the room. “I could be violently knitting my way back to full scale repression.”

“Gee, Pete,” Johnny said, dryly, as the elevator doors closed silently behind him. “If that’s really how you feel about it.”

Peter lowered his hands, giving Johnny the full force of his exhausted glower. “You have the most impeccable timing, Johnny, has anyone ever told you that? And,” he added sourly, “you apparently no longer set off my spider-sense, which is just--”

“Fantastic?” Johnny snickered, perching on the edge of the coffee table across from Peter. He was silent for half a second, and then he made an impatient noise, waving both of his hands up and down. “Come on, sit up, I wanna see it properly. Spider-Man, unmasked.”

Peter breathed in.

Johnny raised his eyebrows.

Peter let the breath out in a great big sigh, and then he sat up straight, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “Happy?”

Johnny barely even glanced at the costume.

“You look like shit,” he told him dryly. “I feel vindicated, knowing the whole clean shaven and sharply dressed thing was, in fact, an outlier for you.”

“Had to borrow the suit from Matt and everything.” Peter had no idea what to do with his hands, so they were clenched firmly on the edge of the couch cushion. “Johnny, this has all been... so unfair to you. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Yeah, heaven forbid the guy I encouraged to keep his identity a secret from me actually try to keep his identity a secret from me,” Johnny said dryly. “Peter, I’m not--” he hesitated.

“Ah.” Peter nodded bleakly. “So you are mad.”

Johnny huffed, uncrossing his legs as he leaned forward to set his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “I have to admit,” he said, carefully, his blue eyes searching Peter’s, “I am a _little_ mad.”

“I--”

“A little mad _that_ ,” Johnny said loudly, cutting him off, “you jumped off of a _building_ , rather than let me faint dramatically into your arms.”

Peter squinted at him. “What?”

“I ended up doing it to Sue,” he said, sourly. “Ben hasn’t shut up about it.”

“I stressed out about _this_ conversation for forty-two hours straight?” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a Human Torch-shaped migraine threatening to punch its way through his skull. “I think I need to lie down.”

“I’m _serious_ ,” Johnny snapped. “Pete, we were so close to having a _textbook_ romantic rescue and you just--”

Hm.

Peter cradled Johnny’s face between his hands and tilted his head slightly, finding a better angle.

So this was what it was like to kiss Johnny Storm. Warm and slow and deep--which was mean, probably. He wasn’t just unshaven; he hadn’t brushed his teeth in a while either.

Not that Johnny seemed to mind.

His grip tightened on Peter’s shoulders as he made a soft, surprised noise and pressed in closer. It was a good thing the kids weren’t around, Peter noted distantly, skimming his hands down Johnny’s sides and tugging him off of the coffee table and over to the couch.

“How long have you been wanting to do that?” Johnny asked, all breathy and quiet when he finally pulled away. His knees were on either side of Peter’s thighs, and he hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Too long.” Peter rested his forehead against Johnny’s, tracing one sharp cheekbone with a callused thumb. “Since right before Sam and Clint tried to murder us with an out of control alien podship.”

Johnny’s eyes flew open and he jerked back. “ _That’s_ too long?” he asked, his voice high with disbelief. “It hasn’t even been two full days!“

“Yeah, well.” Peter offered him a grin. “When you’re hot, you’re hot, and Johnny--you are _hot_.”

Shockingly enough, that line was _not_ a winner. Johnny rolled his eyes so hard it was actually mildly concerning. “I changed my mind; I am breaking up with you.”

“We’re not even _dating_.”

“We were literally on a date _two nights ago_.”

“That was not a _date_ \--”

“It _could_ have been a date--”

“But it _wasn’t_ \--”

“It could have been.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“But--”

Peter clapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, his eyebrows raised. “It wasn’t.”

Johnny pulled his hand away, long fingers curled around his wrist. The glitter of amusement had faded from his face--he looked vulnerable, now, in that way that had always made Peter’s heart do something complicated. “Why only two nights ago?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Peter told him, honestly. He pulled Johnny’s hand in, kissing his knuckles, and added, “You heard the bit about all the repression, right?”

Johnny snorted, letting Peter slowly stretch them out along the couch, one arm curled around Johnny’s waist. “I did, yes. It’s promising for this relationship, that you’re so in touch with your emotions.”

He moved one hand between them, tracing the spider at the center of Peter’s chest with a thoughtful look in his eye. “Quick question.”

“As long as the shirt’s not white, it generally hides the webs no problem.”

“Actually, I wanted to double check.” Johnny sat up on one elbow, his lips twisting sideways with disapproval. “You and Matt Murdock really aren’t a thing, right?”

“Oh, god.” Peter flopped bonelessly onto his back, covering his eyes with his hand. “Kill me now.”


End file.
